An Intricate Nest in a Town with Never Ending Blooming Trees
by Cynthia Machado

San Miguel de Ibarra is a small town that lies at the foot of The Taita* Imbabura volcano in the north of Ecuador. The town is surrounded by other mountains that form part of the Andes. On cloudy days, foreigners get confused by looking at the top of the mountains, some believe that they are looking at rain clouds instead of the top of the mountains. This chickadee from the highlands was born in that small town on a dry and windy summer afternoon in 1980. Why chickadee? Growing up my nickname was pajarita,* and have you ever seen or heard a chickadee singing? They are tiny little birds with very interesting personalities. In Native American culture, chickadees are seen as messengers of truth and knowledge. Their curious, adaptable, and social personalities remind me of my own. They remind me to stay open to new experiences, keep learning, foster strong relationships, to be flexible when faced with challenges and DO NOT PANIC.

At the time this chickadee was born the population of San Miguel de Ibarra was probably less than 100,000, now it is more than double. The city has a Spanish colonial style of architecture, and it was known as the White City, because the facade of the houses downtown were painted all in white. When I was little, we could walk everywhere. It took me 20 minutes to walk to either my maternal or paternal grandparents’ houses, except the Christmas of 1984, when it took us a couple of hours because I got one of those old walking dolls, the ones that operate with batteries. I asked my parents if we could take her with us. Imagine walking at the pace of a walking doll at less than 0.05 mph.

The city design is like a square grid. It has seven main streets going north-south and about the same number of streets going east-west. In the center of the town is the main plaza. Two large old catholic churches are located side by side on the north side of the plaza. On the west side, the City Hall. On the east side, a couple of old Spanish style houses. On the south side, an abandoned building where the oldest only boys’ high school used to operate. That is where my dad started his career as a chemistry teacher and my paternal grandpa taught history. I believe my love for teaching is ingrained deeply in my DNA. I have done it since I was in high school and used to tutor my classmates.

This chickadee was shy and reserved as a child, and extremely attached to my mom. My mom has a picture of us together that proves my introversion. It was taken when I was four years old; I am sitting on the floor playing with some toys right next to a couch where my mom was sitting. It was the birthday party of one of my godmothers’ kids, and there I was sitting by my mom’s side instead of playing with all the other kids. Being with my mom was more important than any toys or games. When I started kindergarten, the school had to make an exception and let me come to the school at 8am and leave by 12pm. Why? Because that was the only schedule that would work for my mom to be able to drop me off and pick me up. If she did not drop me off or pick me up, I cried at school like it was the end of the world. I am still extremely attached to my mom; I live 2,551 miles away from her but thanks to the inventions of Alexander Graham Bell and Steve Jobs, we talk at least five times a week. I am still a little reserved, although I flex my extrovert muscles depending on the situation and how much -OH I have in my system.

My family belonged to the middle class back in the 1980s. People say that I look like my mom but have the olive skin color of my dad. If you put side by side pictures of my mom and myself at the same age, my picture is the negative version of hers, with the colors reversed. My mom was a kindergarten teacher and my dad a biochemist. Unfortunately, my parents were not lucky like me and free to decide what career they wanted to pursue; their parents decided for them. I know that my dad’s dream was to become an electrical engineer; he did not study that major, but I think he deserves an honorary degree. If something broke in my house, he knew how to fix it.

I was his right hand, the one who helped him when something got broken and needed to be fixed. I helped him to wash our car once a month. It was a long four-hour methodical process. We started by vacuuming the interior, then washing the floor mats and the tires with a brush and a block of blue soap traditionally used to wash clothes by hand. Then rinse, then wash the glass windows with a different detergent and a soft cloth, then rinse, then wash the entire body of the car with a third type of soap, then rinse, then dry it by hand with a soft cloth, then apply wax by hand, let it dry, and then remove it with a clean, soft cloth. I have tried to follow the same tradition every time I buy a new car, but after one or two times I go back to enjoying the convenience and efficiency of automatic car washes.

My mom and dad met in their late twenties, both were already working, and my mom had recently been selected as the beauty queen of my town. They “dated” for less than five months and then got married. Based on what I experienced when living at home I wish they had dated for longer and even lived together before deciding to get married, but that was forbidden based on Catholic and conservative beliefs. One of my therapists told me once, you have to date someone through all four seasons to really get to know each other and decide if you want to continue a long relationship. I don’t think that my parents got to know each other very well before getting married. Unfortunately, they argued constantly, and they still do. They almost got divorced when I was nine years old, but they didn’t. Sometimes I wonder, why did they not?

I remembered when they talked to me and my sisters about the possibility of getting divorced. It felt like a cold shower. The first thing that came to my mind was, how am I going to explain this to my friends? Now that I am close to forty-five and looking back, I think it would have been better if they got divorced. Why? It would have saved liters of tears for all of us and days of long faces.

Anyways, even though I grew up in a very strict household with parents that did not really love each other, I will always be thankful for their support and the values they taught me: respecting and helping others, integrity, honesty, kindness, courage, education and doing one’s best.

My dad’s personality is the opposite of my mom’s — very serious, unapproachable, inflexible, and intolerable. His students in town used to call him El Cuco,* because he was extremely strict, and he was the same way at home. If one of us was not at home by the time we said we would be back, he would get mad. If something got broken at home, he would get mad. We lived in constant fear; I remember sometimes waking up at night from the noise of my parents arguing, my eyes water remembering those days. Even now, when I go back to visit my parents, I don’t sleep deeply; I find myself waking up in the middle of the night thinking that I hear them arguing.

I do have some of my dad’s personality traits, I remember being strict and inflexible when I worked as a teacher assistant. Another thing that I inherited from him (that bothered me as a kid) is that after an argument, he would stop talking to everyone at home. Sometimes, I think that is one of the reasons why I avoid conflict or why I sometimes have trouble talking about difficult topics with others, because I never saw my parents having a civilized conversation to resolve family issues.

People say that I inherited most of my mom’s personality: quiet, empathetic, tolerant, kindhearted, unselfish, most of the time putting the needs of others on top of hers, which drives me crazy when she does it (although it is hypocritical, because I tend to do the same thing). I am not a psychologist, but after multiple years of talking with a therapist, I have recognized another characteristic of my mom. Unfortunately she has a victim’s mentality. This idea that others (my dad and her parents) are the cause for an undesired situation and deny a personal responsibility for her own life or circumstances. Sometimes I wonder why. And my guess is that she has developed that mentality from living for so long in a very difficult marriage and from having a difficult childhood. I see my mom as a sweet chickadee mom trapped in a cage, and I feel guilty because I left that cage and can fly freely.

*Taita = Father in Quechua
*Pajarita = Little female bird
*El Cuco = The Boogeyman

May 2024
North Carolina, USA